


These Gifts We Grow

by gobuyastarwars



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Gen, I don't understand how tagging works I'm sorry, Um second fic and I still don't know what I'm doing, alternate universe of reality?, alternative universe, grogu is a student in this, it was a lot sweeter in my head, making up dumb phrases, someone help me title fics, sorry if this is boring, y'all have such lively tiles and i'm literally just
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:48:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29368776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gobuyastarwars/pseuds/gobuyastarwars
Summary: AU where Din and Grogu are in this reality (no questions asked, just go with it haha) and Grogu is taking a test designed for younger students to determine if he should be placed in a gifted and talented class.
Kudos: 11





	These Gifts We Grow

**Author's Note:**

> The Mandalorian Chapter 13: "The Jedi" actually reminded me of a parent gently encouraging their kid while their kid does schoolwork or lessons. They know their child knows this concept and that they previously reviewed this. They want their kid to shine in front of a teacher or a tutor. So this fic is just imagining Grogu as an elementary schooler. I don't know if Ahsoka is the proctor (I'm not sure if this is really her voice as presented in The Clone Wars), so you can choose who the proctor is. This story is from the point of view of the test proctor/teacher. **UPDATE: Thank you to Mandaloria314 on Tumblr for the title!! I struggled with the title.**

This is not exactly a day I look forward to.

Don’t get me wrong: I love teaching and education and the flicker of understanding when a child finally understands a concept. I am a teacher at heart. What I am not is a defender, or a defenseman, and that's what this Gifted and Talented testing requires.

Actually, it’s not the whole day that's challenging. The afternoon is blissfully blocked off for older elementary schoolers to take their tests all at once in the gymnasium. It’s the morning that’s hard.

Because, you see, district guidelines allow the parents of younger elementary school students to sit in on the Gifted and Talented evaluation.

The younger students– kindergarten through Grade 2– take their test one by one in the school auditorium. Then I interview them (quaintly called “a chat") to learn more about the students’ cognitive abilities, interests, and behavior. Because evaluations are one-on-one for younger students, each evaluation session is just a nervous student, their even more nervous parents, and me. 

Even though the exam results are mailed out in June, parents often ask a barrage of questions and demand to know here and now how their child did. I’m not allowed to make any promises on who’s in and who isn’t. I use every positive descriptor I can think of besides “gifted” and “talented” and the phrase “you passed" to answer the parents' questions.

Then, in June, I inevitably receive a lot of calls and emails from upset parents whose children were not accepted into the program. Have you ever tried explaining to a parent their child did not make the cut for the Gifted and Talented program and, no, the decision wasn’t a mistake? That’s like saying their child isn’t gifted and talented enough. I guarantee you it would be easier to fight in a boxing ring or swim a whole sea.

But what can I do? I don’t make the rules. I’m just the test proctor.

You see now why I would rather skip this day.

The exams are held annually in the elementary school auditorium on the last Saturday of May. The puny auditorium stage is scuffed up with faded blue stage curtains. Because these are one-on-one evaluations, there’s need for just one table right here under the hot stage lights. I would have preferred somewhere else, like the library or a conference room, but again I don’t make the rules. It’s quite a sight for a child, I imagine, to see that solitary table and chair all the way up on the stage.

I set up pencils and test booklets on the table, and I put out chairs for the parents.

The day begins, and I watch cute little kids either fill out their test booklet confidently, stare blankly at the booklet, or start drawing on top of the problems. Some of them don't even know how to hold a pencil properly. Many parents do not sit down in their provided chairs and instead hover over their children, their shadows no doubt blotting out their child’s test booklet. There’s a drawn out silence to each 15-minute test where the stage lights buzz obnoxiously and nothing's comfortably silent. Besides that, the post-test triumph or disappointment of parents is its own noise.

After each test, I take the prescribed interview as an opportunity to lighten the atmosphere so that the kid can relax and the parents can calm down because– reminder– your child is young and the road to brilliance isn’t determined by this itty-bitty test. I ask easy and fun questions so everyone smiles. The children smile because talking is more enjoyable than test-taking. The parents smile because they take my easy-going nature as a sign their child passed.

Once I calm the atmosphere and have the family leave in a state of ease, I have to start the whole cycle over again with the next student who comes in to take the test.

Towards noon, I finally arrive at the last entry for one-on-one testing. The list indicates this student is in kindergarten. But there must be a mistype, because the paperwork says this child is 50 instead of 5. There’s a smudge over the child’s first name, so I can’t read it. The last name is blank, but the parent’s name is printed clearly: Din Djarin.

Then in comes the strangest duo.

There's a very small child with enormous, sober eyes that may very well have belonged to a 50-year-old. The child keeps perfect pace with his father– a tall, built man with an enormous cowboy hat that casts his face perfectly in shadow.

Although I’m usually quick to welcome people and put on a smile, I don’t greet them as the father silently picks up the child, climbs the stage stairs, and places the child at the table. Most parents choose to sit by their child so they can watch their child take the test, but this father pulls the chair away from his kid. Much further than I've seen most other parents sit. He sits close enough so that he can keep an eye on the child, but far enough away that the child has space.

I can’t see the father’s expression, but I get this feeling that he’s not watching the kid but me with distrust.

The child watches me curiously. This child isn’t scared, or anxious, or overactive. He’s calm and silent. I’m left with this impression that this isn’t a young student but a sage.

I summon my smile. “Good afternoon! Last one to take the assessment!” I exclaim cheerily. This spiel isn’t for the father, even though it’s usually the parent who cares about this evaluation more than the children. “Thank you so much for spending some of your Friday here so we can get to know you better! This helps us figure out how you might best learn next year.” This, of course, is a really overly pleasant way to frame a test for accelerated learning.

I glance at the formwork while holding my smile. I don’t want to admit that I can’t figure out this kid’s name, because that feels impersonal and I’m trying to make this as chill and constructive as possible. Maybe there’s a way the father will say his son’s name?

“Mr. Djarin?”

“Djarin,” the father corrects me, even though I can’t hear a difference in pronunciation.

“Yes, sir, we’ll just have–”

I pause meaningfully with a smile so Din Djarin can naturally fill the pause with his child’s name. Mr. Djarin does not rush to fill the silence. He waits me out.

That’s strange. Parents usually rush to supply answers about their children.

The child looks back and forth between us and figures out we're at a stalemate.

“What’s your name honey?” I say, addressing the child.

The child blinks at me.

I look at the father.

The father may very well be looking back at me, but I can’t tell.

“Oh he’s shy!” I gush at the child and bat my hand like a joke’s been made. This child doesn’t strike me as shy. He's somehow above it all. “No worries! Let’s get started!”

Djarin nods curtly from his seat and the child watches with discerning eyes as I set the kindergarten-level booklet in front of him. Djarin's child does not fill out his name on the front page of the test booklet. 

Like the other children, Djarin’s child holds his pencil in a fist. His numbers and letters are enormous and unsteady. But, unlike the others, he finishes his booklet in one minute. Most children don’t make it through their booklet during the allotted time. I have never seen a child zip through their test that fast. As I watch, I realize the child has gotten all the answers right, too.

Theoretically, finishing the booklet should complete the test portion of this evaluation. But it seems like fraud to simply wrap up the test after a minute when they took the time to come in. So, I place the First Grade-level test booklet in front of the child.

I expected that to take the rest of the allotted time, but to my astonishment the child finishes that in 5 minutes.

At this point, we are 6 minutes into the allotted 15 minutes. This much work should be enough to determine that, indeed, this child is gifted. But I can’t help but wonder how much more this kid can do.

I give the child the Second Grade-level test. The child has no emotion– no disgust, no excitement, nothing– and simply fills out the test like he’s been asked to write something as simple as his name (that, by the way, I still do not know.)

We’re at 10 minutes. I give him the Third Grade-level test. Din Djarin doesn’t move from where he sits patiently in his chair. I still can’t see this guy's face, but there’s something attentive about the way he’s sitting. He doesn't seem anxious, really. He’s waiting patiently. I can't tell if he's waiting for the end of the test or something else.

We're at 14 minutes when the child stops zipping through the third grade test booklet. The child’s pencil hovers over what looks like a fifth grade math problem that’s been sprinkled into the third graders’ test.

Usually the math problems are for the grade ahead– in this case, fourth grade– to check how advanced a student is, but this one’s exceptionally hard. It seems like the child is stumped about calculating the surface area for a convoluted, definitely-not-naturally-occurring-in-nature 3D shape. As far as I’m concerned, it’s not a particularly useful question. You’re never going to look at a shape like that and think, “oh gee, I wish I knew the total surface area of that thing!”

Instead of skipping the problem and going on, the child looks stuck. Of course! A child this young wouldn’t know test-taking strategies.

I’m about to call an end to the test because this child has done more than enough– it’s clear he should be skipping a grade– when Mr. Djarin says quietly, “Hey buddy, you stuck?”  
So that’s what the father was waiting for. He was waiting to see if his child needed him.

The child swivels in his chair and peers plaintively at his dad.

Djarin crosses the room and kneels beside the child at the table. He looks at the problem the child is stuck on.

“You know this buddy,” Djarin says. “I know you do.”

The child shakes his head.

Djarin says, “We just went over this. He knows th–” and I realize the father’s talking to me. But before he finishes his sentence, he’s decided he’s unconcerned with my opinion. This isn’t about what the child knows and doesn’t know, I realize. It isn’t about a problem answered correct or wrong.

The child shakes his head and puts down the pencil.

They’re out of their allotted time, but I don’t say anything. I watch as Djarin picks up the pencil and offers it back to the child. The child cautiously takes the pencil back.

“Sometimes we get stuck, but we have to keep moving,” Djarin said.

The child doesn’t seem to be in particular agreement or disagreement, but the child is staring at the problem again. I’m surprised the father doesn’t tell his son to skip the problem and keep going. To just plow on.

Then the child starts circling parts of the convoluted shape and even draws out some of the shape’s faces on the page. It’s as if the child’s remembering something between the two of them, some lesson recalled from some past homework session.

“There you go. You break down a larger problem into parts,” Djarin says. It's clearly not the first time he has said this.

It occurs to me this test isn’t so much about getting the child into the Gifted and Talented program. A child that smart must often be bored. They simply came to take this test so that the child could test out his skills, give his talents a whirl the way someone might try a new bike or game. They don't care about the results.

When the child finishes the problem, I call time.

“Very good job!” I congratulate the child. The child looks curiously back at me. He still doesn’t speak, and the father doesn’t bother to fill the silence either.

There’s, of course, the interview portion of the evaluation, but I get that they’re not here for that nor do they have the patience for it.

“Do you have any favorite subjects?” I ask and gesture to the booklet in an attempt to get the interview started. The child looks expectantly at the father.

Silence marches by.

“He doesn’t speak much,” Djarin says, which clearly meant, ‘He doesn't really speak at all.’

I’m a little relieved. I have a feeling I should let these two go. I’m exhausted, anyway, from this morning of testing.

“That’s okay,” I say, all cheer. “I think we’re done here. Thank you for coming by.”

Djarin thanks me and carries his son away. As the two patter out, I hear Din Djarin chuckle and gently say to his son, “I knew you were smart. Don’t need a test to tell us that.”


End file.
